


Dream a little dream of me

by maiNuoire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stiles doesn't live in Beacon Hills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dreams started when he was fifteen. Stiles went to bed late, having stayed up stumbling around random mythology websites, caught up in his latest research: the fascinating history of werewolf lore. He drifted off sometime after 2 a.m., and found himself in an unfamiliar forest, the foreign trees, tall and lush green, filtering the silver light of the full moon to cast dappled shadows on the forest floor. It's the most realistic dream he's ever had, it almost feels more like reality than his actual life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> Because I apparently needed another work in progress?
> 
> This will be from Stiles' perspective, with occasional shifts to Derek's. It'll get steamy in later chapters. I have several chapters plotted, and hope to update a couple times a month.
> 
> There was a fic that inspired this, but I unfortunately lost track of it on tumblr, so if you have any inkling as to the title/author of that as you read through, please let me know!

The dreams started when he was fifteen. Stiles went to bed late, having stayed up stumbling around random mythology websites, caught up in his latest research: the fascinating history of werewolf lore. He drifted off sometime after 2 a.m., and found himself in an unfamiliar forest, the foreign trees, tall and lush green, filtering the silver light of the full moon to cast dappled shadows on the forest floor. It's the most realistic dream he's ever had, it almost feels  _ more _ like reality than his actual life.

 

In the distance, there is a low howl, and a quiet shudder dances along Stiles’ spine. It's not fear, though, that makes him shiver. Something in the sound resonates almost joyfully somewhere deep inside him; it feels safe and familiar, calls to him like a loved one's exclamation. He smiles widely into the darkened wood and begins to move, not quite running toward the sound of the wolf, _ it's a wolf _ , his brain supplies, his wolf- and that thought should startle him to pause, at least, but it doesn't, because it feels true. He runs and runs, but doesn't feel like he's getting anywhere, only the shifting patterns of moonlight assuring him he's actually moving.

 

His wolf calls out periodically, the sound clear and bright, and it feels like a friendly taunt. Like  _ ‘Come find me, I dare you!” _  Stiles has never backed down from a dare. He runs faster, laughing loudly, calling out “I'm going to get you, Clever-wolf!” They play for hours, never meeting, but as Stiles collapses heavily into a small pile of soft earth and leaves, he can't feel disappointed. It feels like a prelude, not a let down.

 

The moon is low now, the very beginnings of sunrise asserting itself in a pink tinge to the edges of the sky. Stiles lies with his head pillowed on arms crossed behind it, breathing in the smell of green things and earth and the promise of rain, a soft grin pulling at his lips.

 

He wakes in his bed, lying as he had on the forest floor, smile still in place, the faint trace of that strange pull echoing in his chest, all but forgotten as he shakes the last of sleep’s embrace with a jaw cracking yawn and a stretch.

 

\-----

 

He has the dream often, he never manages to catch his wolf, though he is pretty sure his wolf sees him, he can feel the prickle of awareness that mean someone has their eyes on you sometimes. He still can't be disappointed though, he still feels like their meeting is inevitable, like they'll meet when the stars align properly, or Venus is in retrograde, or some such nonsense. The rest of his dreams become more vivid, too. He doesn't like the other ones, they don't feel safe like the woods with his wolf. 

 

Sometimes, he's on a beach, the water lapping at the shore and the smell of salt in the air overwhelming his senses. Sometimes, there's a clearing with an impossibly large tree in the center of it; Stiles feels anxious in the presence of its twisting limbs, like his skin doesn't fit right and there's electricity in his veins instead of blood. Once, there was a shell of a house, flame blackened and empty. He felt a tug of something there, but mostly it made him heavy and sad, he woke with damp, salty trails on his cheeks, his eye lashes spiky and wetly stuck together.

 

The first time he found himself in his woods after that, his wolf had been silent for a long time, his only howl that night was a mournful thing that had Stiles aching to offer comfort. He ended up sinking to his knees from the weight of the unaccustomed pain in the now familiar cry, without too much thought, he was howling back, the sound all too human, but imbued with affection and sympathy and his own loss. He curled in on himself after, panting to catch his breath under a sudden sob.

 

He raises his head at the feel of a gentle nudge against his shoulder. He finds himself looking into warm, golden eyes, the gentle rush of canine breath puffing against his face. He lets out an awed “It's you,” and it sounds relieved and adoring to his ears. Stiles reaches a tentative hand toward his wolf's head, sinking his fingers into the shockingly soft fur when the animal butts his nose encouragingly against his palm. He breathes out a sigh of a “Finally,” before he's wrapping his arms around the wolf's neck, burying his face in the silky length of his neck. The wolf responds by nuzzling Stiles’ neck, huffing softly as he rests his face on Stiles’ shoulder.

 

Stiles revels in the contact, the comfort offered and taken both. He feels whole in a way he has never felt. They fall asleep curled together on the soft forest floor. Stiles wakes in his bed, content in a wholly unfamiliar but welcome way. When he finds a crushed leaf in his hair, he wrinkles his nose in confusion, but before he can think about it too much his dad calls to him and the crumpled leaf falls from his hand, forgotten.

 

\--------

 

After they meet, Stiles finds himself in the forest more often. He finds that if he focuses on the way he feels there, on his wolf, or the pattern the light makes through the trees in his favorite part of the forest, he dreams of it more often than not. Most nights, he and his wolf find each other; they play tag and snuggle up to tell stories, well, Stiles tells stories, but he's certain his wolf understand them. Usually Stiles uses his wolf as a pillow, head resting on his warm, soft side, the wolf snuffling Stiles’ hair happily.

 

\--------

 

Stiles is sixteen when he learns he is not dreaming.

 

He wakes up in the middle of the road, one he's dreamed of before, and had been dreaming of again, only this time he is definitely awake; the blaring of the car horn has ensured that. What it does not do, is help Stiles understand why he is standing in the rain, in his flannel pyjama pants and lacrosse t-shirt, in the middle of the road.

 

The driver, a nurse, if the scrubs she wears are to be taken at face value, approaches with an umbrella and a concerned, motherly expression. “Are you alright, honey? What are you doing out here?” She looks him up and down as if checking for injury, or maybe an answer, her gaze stutters over his bare feet before returning to his face. “Can I give you a ride home, kiddo? Are you hurt?”

 

Stiles is definitely- something. But he's not in need of medical attention. The ride though, that might be necessary. “I'm- I'm sorry, ma’am. But, um, where exactly are we? I think, I mean. I might have… sleepwalked?” He thinks that sounds plausible. That could have happened, right?

 

Her face softens, “You're in Beacon Hills. I'm Melissa. Let's get you in the car, alright-”

  
“Stiles, you can call me Stiles. Do you think I could call my dad, I don't appear to have my phone.” She leads him to the car, handing over her cell phone with a concerned smile. He manages a “Thank you,” before he clutches the phone in an attempt to stave off a panic attack. He has never even heard of Beacon Hills

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think?
> 
> Sneak peeks posted on my tumblr, come say hi!
> 
> www.tumblr.com/blog/poetry-protest-pornography


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